


Sainthood

by objectlesson



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-03
Updated: 2013-01-03
Packaged: 2017-11-23 13:06:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/622447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Riker constructs the difference between man and monster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sainthood

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t think I can write anything in this pairing but graphic PWP. I’m clearly going to hell. This never happened, I don’t own them.

Riker holds himself up over Wesley’s prone body, brow against the bones of his shoulders, thighs quaking and braced on either side of narrow hips. Wesley is pushing his ass into the air, arching his back and he looks like a cat, like a girl, like something that wants to be filled. And Riker wants to. He really, really wants to, but he wont. 

The fact that he has any restraint what so ever in this mess is the greatest of solaces. It is what he tells himself when he imagines Deanna feeling his feelings for Wesley like an overflow on the bridge, her recognition of the material, her confusion (disgust) at the direction. It’s what he tells himself when he thinks of what the Captain would say. Of how hard Beverley Crusher would hit him across the face with a backhanded smack. How he would probably be dishonorable discharged from Starfleet. 

It is what he tells himself when he sits at his desk staring at a phaser set to kill, rubbing his face with two open palms, wondering how much longer he can live with himself doing what he is doing. He feels like a monster, he _knows_ he is a monster, but he knows it with slightly less certainty when he imagines Wesley’s back crooked up like this, his ass open and wanting and willing, and imagines himself _holding back_ , successfully, from giving him what he thinks he wants. Riker is not a saint, but he is also not a monster. 

Or, that is what he tells himself. 

Wesley is bucking against the bed, skin covered in a sheen of sweat, lithe, underdeveloped muscles rippling like water under the smooth expanse of his skin. Riker mouths along his back, rough kisses with teeth, enough that there’s half moons of red he can see but will fade in a few hours. He applauds himself internally for not tearing into Wesley, for not leaving the swollen, dark bruises sucked to the surface of silver skin he longs to mark. He is a man, but he is not a monster.

He thumbs along Wesley’s ass crack, pulling him apart so he can see the dark pink pucker wink and contract, glinting wet in the low light because Riker has been licking him there, licking and sucking and kissing and even pushing just the tip of his tongue inside, nudging past the ring of muscle so he can taste darkness without losing himself to it. Wesley stills, his thighs shivering as Riker aligns his dick with the crack of his ass, sliding against the slick heat of him. “Feel good?” He asks, carding his hand through the back of Wesley’s hair. It looks huge there, tangled against the curve of a boys skull. He kisses the places he’s bitten, licks the sting away. 

Wesley nods, silenced by the weight of Riker across his back. Riker rolls his hips languidly, fucking the crack, rubbing against everything that counts without breaking a single rule. He pushes it. He wants to. Then he can prove he’s honorable, he’s preserving them both, saving them. He kisses Wesley’s ear and feels him shiver, and then he’s turning his head, lips smothered under Riker’s and they’re kissing,filthy and wet for seconds before Riker drops him, leaves Wesley’s mouth swollen and panting. 

Riker hikes himself up, bearing his weight on tense forearms as he thrusts against Wesley’s ass, glancing down to see the pale flesh lewdly bisected by the thickness of his own cock, red and pulsing and wanting, the head shiny with precum leaking out of him. Wesley is riding the pillow under his hips, propping him up, grinding his ass along the length of Riker’s dick. Little huffs of air leave Wesley’s mouth as he lurches with the weight of Riker’s thrusts, and it’s easy for Riker to believe that he’s really fucking him, _this is what he’d look like if I were inside of him, these sounds, this movement._

He shifts his weight so his thighs are straddling Wesley’s ass, his center of gravity shifting to hold himself up, leaving his hands free to grip the tight, sweat-slick flesh of Wesley’s hips, and he lets himself go. Snapping his hips wildly, gracelessly against skin so hot it _could_ be inside, it _could_ be that infernal place which divides man from monster. He closes his eyes, feels drips of sweat sliding down his back, matting down his chest hair, and theres a final push of Wesley’s hips to meet hip halfway, and he’s coming against it, painting Wesley’s back in thick ribbons of white. 

Wesley moans louder when Riker comes on him than when he comes himself, like always. Riker fists a hand in his hair, pulls his face away from the pillows so he can hear Wesley’s mindless, animal groaning as Riker twitches against his asshole, exploding hotwet all over him. Riker’s eyes open in time to see Wesley’s skinny arm struggling underneath his own body to jack himself off (onto Riker’s pillow, the one he sleeps on, the one that will smell like pubescent sweat and skin and seed for days because God knows he won’t wash it), coming soon after with a solitary, voice-cracked yelp. 

“I got you, I got you,” Riker whispers as Wesley comes down from it, small body convulsing, long and nearly metallic in its sheen of sweat. Riker kisses beads of it from his bitten shoulder, licks the angular jut of bone, swallows what he can reach with his softening dick still sliding against Wesley, slippery with his come. “How was that?” 

Wesley, pressed face down, makes an indistinguishable mumbling noise against the pillows, then shifts so Riker can see him smiling. Spots of bright, chaotic color are stinging pink on his cheek, and Riker leans forward, presses a rough kiss there, then rolls off. 

They lie there, side by side in silence for a few moments while skin cools, and Riker begins his familiar spiral into near irreparable self hatred. He might not be the kind of man who fucks seventeen year old boys in the ass, but he is the kind to gets off on fantasizing about it, on the pantomime of it. He is the kind of man who does everything to seventeen year old boys _but_ fuck them in the ass, he has kissed the insides of Wesley’s thighs, he’s sucked on him until he comes, he’s thrust into the satin fire of that pretty, plush mouth. Riker drags a hand through his hair, and feels his insides slowly reform into their cold, leaden states that Wesley always undoes. 

“Commander,” Wes asks, pressing the length of his body against Riker’s, hand tangling in the dark curls of hair on Riker’s chest. Without being able to stop himself, Riker adjusts his own position so that his arm, broad and protective, curls around Wesley’s shoulder. “Can I ask you something?” 

Riker thinks about it. “You can ask me whatever you like. We’ll see if I can answer.” He smiles the winning smile, the one that gets him things. This time, it gets him one of Wesley’s smiles in return, and Riker gently thumbs the corner of that mouth, a sick fist of remorse and longing closing icy fingers in his intestines. 

“Why don’t you ever...” and Wesley struggles with the words for a second, pursing his lips. “You know.” 

“I _don’t_ know,” Riker tells him, even though he does know. Wes tilts his head back, rolls his eyes, moves the hand on Riker’s chest up to rest on his throat where he playfully squeezes. His hand looks small and pale there. Riker pulls it away and threads young fingers through his own, kissing the knuckles. “Anyway, if you can’t say it, you shouldn’t be doing it. How about that?” 

“Why don’t you ever _fuck_ me?” Wesley says triumphantly, lingering on the _ck_ sound of fuck. “How about _that_?” 

Riker’s stomach shouldn’t plummet, his dick shouldn’t twitch against his thigh, but it does. His hand, which was formerly drawing aimless patterns against the too-smooth stretch of Wesley’s bicep, stills. “Mind your mouth, young Mr. Crusher.” 

The mouth in question twists up into a smile, red lips glistening over white teeth. Riker wants to curse, wants to bite that mouth hard and with everything in him, tear Wesley Crusher’s youth and innocence to fragments, hair and bone in a soup of blood. He is too young. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t understand. Instead of hurting them both, Riker pushes Wesley prone underneath him, cradles his skull in the feigned confidence of a palm and kisses him deep, swirling their tongues together, tasting him as deep as he knows how. Wesley murmurs into the kiss, hands alighting on Riker’s jaw and rubbing against the scrape of beard. 

When Riker pulls away, he hopes Wesley won’t ask him again, but he does. Riker should have known; Wesley Crusher is a genius. 

“So you’ll do that to me, but you won’t fuck me?” Wesley asks the second he gets his breath back, hands still on Riker. 

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” 

“Nope,” Wesley shakes his head, and Riker sighs, feeling defeated. There is no good, honest answer for _any_ persistent teenager, let alone a brilliant, stupid, naive one. And because there is no honest answer, it proves that his careful construction, all that exists between him and the destruction of his self concept is a flimsy lie that he is capable of holding back, that this _one thing_ is the difference between honor and lack therof. 

“You’re too young,” is what he ends up saying, because age is the one inarguable thing between them, the one thing Wesley cannot convince him he has, because it is so obvious, written out on his face with soft lines and the darkness of eyes who have only known seventeen years of pain, rather than a lifetime of it. It’s there. It’s everything. It might be why Riker loves him, as much as it is (part of) why Riker holds back. 

Wesley rolls his eyes again. “Are you serious? But...we do everything else. How is you touching me here,” and Riker jumps as Wesley’s hand rubs over the warm, spent skin of his dick, “and _basically_ fucking without actually fucking me any _better_? How am I old enough for that, but not old enough to have you inside me?” 

_Inside me_ rages through Riker like a beast, shreds his stomach and replaces it with molten heat, makes him stay suspended in the air above Wesley for a split second. He catches himself, takes a deep breath, bends to kiss Wesley’s smooth brow. “That kind of thing is different. I can’t expect you to understand, but it just is. You’ll know what I mean someday.” 

The truth, of course, is that Wesley is right. But for the moment, Riker is safe, and Wesley just huffs, closes his eyes, and drags Riker down into another kiss, questions obliterated between them. 

~*~

The next time Riker is thrusting along the crack of Wesley’s ass, spit-slick and shining and twitching with want, Wesley reaches behind him with a sweat-glistening arm and feels the place they are joined and tries to push Riker inside. “ _No_ ,” Riker says desperately, realizing with a terrifying clarity that his lie could end this suddenly, one slip too close to the target and Wesley could open up for him. He does not trust himself to stop if it ever came to that. 

“Please,” Wesley chokes out, curling his back and pressing his ass against the length of Riker’s dick. “I can take it. I promise.” 

Just hearing him say these things is destroying Riker, and he drops his head, bites harder than he has ever bitten into Wesley’s shoulder, and instead of buckling in pain like he wants him to, Wesley cants up into it, moans, pushes harder. 

“Fuck,” Riker gasps, so close, explosive against the infernal stretch of skin between Wesley’s balls and his hole, and it seems like nothing. It seems like so little, such an arbitrary, pointless thing to hang his humanity on, this place inside Wesley Crusher, so he finally caves like something rotten and dissolves into the purity of want. With a shaking hand he drags his thumb down the clenching ring of muscle, pushes it inside the scalding heat, and air hisses out of Wesley’s teeth. 

“Yes,” he mumbles, and Riker watches him take a mouthful of sheets between his teeth, bite down hard. 

It’s tight, so tight it almost hurts, and Riker can only push the very tip of his cock into Wesley’s ass before they’re both coming, Wesley between his own thighs, tensing and spasming so hard inside he almost pushes Riker out of his own body. Riker spills inside him, mouth open and broken around a wordless prayer, brow screwed up and his entire body hot and shivering. 

“Thank you,” Wesley says breathlessly, hand clumsy and sweat-slick on Riker’s shuddering wrist. He squeezes. “Thank you.” 

“Wes,” is all he can say, voice ragged but clear. He is not yet dismayed, because Wesley is thanking him and all of him feels perfect, consummate, whole. At least for this moment. 

Riker has nowhere to go from this point, so as he softens and his eyes close, he waits to change into something inhuman.


End file.
